


More Than the Sum of Our Parts

by relic_amaranth



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Plus-Size Reader, Reader-Insert, body issues, overweight reader, self-confidence issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-03-08 01:46:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13447893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/relic_amaranth/pseuds/relic_amaranth
Summary: You trust Steve with your life, but not your body. Maybe it’s time for that to change.





	More Than the Sum of Our Parts

**Author's Note:**

> For a reference maybe not everyone will get: Carole Lombard was a beautiful lady of 1930s cinema who was married to Clark Gable (and died in a tragic plane crash in the 40s while selling war bonds; v. sad). (Also, I gotta admit I waffled between Jean Harlow and Carole Lombard because they’re both gorgeous but Lombard inched out. Myrna Loy was also a top contender ‘cause hot damn.)

You walk into your little studio apartment and drop your keys and bag on the table next to the door. The day hadn’t been especially hard but it was long enough that it’s dark out now, and all you want is to relax.

Or, you realize with a growing smile as you see your boyfriend lying on the bed, something else. Steve glances over and smiles at you, setting aside his book and sitting up in a succession of smooth movements. He has issues with his body, sometimes, but he really knows how to use it. “Hey sweetheart,” he says and stays as you walk over to him. You eye his lap but sit next to him, and he pulls you in closer with an arm around your back. “Long day?”

“Kind of,” you admit. You could easily lean in and fall asleep like this, so you turn your head and pull him in for a kiss. Your boyfriend is an incredibly good kisser. It took a little practice to get him there, but now Steve maneuvers around your mouth as easily as he moves about a battlefield. The blunt force of his lips and tongue can leave you breathless, but when he skirts the edges, nipping up and down your neck…

He pulls back, breathing a little heavier. “We should, uh, eat dinner first. You’re probably starving.”

“Nah,” you say and pull your nails down his back, outside his thin, tight shirt. “I could work up an appetite.” You grin and lean up to nibble up his neck. “But you do look good enough to eat…”

He huffs a laugh and lies down, bringing you with him. You’re careful not to bring all your weight with you, though, because Steve is strong enough to lift a car and you don’t ever want to hear how you’re ‘heavier than you look’ even in jest.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

You go to turn off the lamp next to the bed but Steve says, “Wait,” and grabs your hand before it reaches the switch. “Can we do something a little different?”

Talk about intriguing. Sex with Steve never stops being amazing whether it’s fueled by fevered need or gentle desire, and maybe that’s why neither of you have switched it up yet. But oh the possibilities. “What do you have in mind?”

He smiles in the way he knows makes you weak in the knees, the scheming bastard, and he pulls you up and over to straddle him. He runs his hands over your thighs, up your hips, and slips his hands just under the bottom of your shirt. “Let’s leave the light on.”

You blink, feeling a creeping edge of dread that you can’t seem to put into words. “That…I don’t…that doesn’t sound like a good idea.”

Steve, of course, looks shrewd. Scheming bastard indeed. “Why not?”

“It’s because…I’m not…well…” You gesture helplessly at your body.

“We’ve been having sex for a while now. I’ve _felt_ almost every part of you.”

He drags his short nails down your sides and you shudder. “It’s different,” you protest, even as he rubs his hands over your skin. “It’s even different just normally because yeah you see me but you see me in clothes. You see me how I _want_ to be seen.” Mostly.

“What do you think is so wrong that I wouldn’t want to see you?” he asks.

You roll your eyes. “I’m fat.”

“That’s it?”

You shoot him a dirty look. “I have been self-conscious of my body since I was a _child_ Steve; don’t act like that’s _nothing_.”

His expression softens. “You know I understand that,” he says and reaches up to touch your face. You lean into it. “I never felt completely small like I was and even now I don’t feel like this is _my_ body, sometimes. But you help me when I feel out of place in my skin. Maybe I can help you.”

You take his hand and kiss it, and let out a little sigh. “Except sometimes I don’t _want_ to be in my own skin,” you admit. “Sometimes I want to be someone else. To know what it’s like to _not_ be heavy. To…do things smaller girls can do.”

He frowns, like he’s figuring something out. “Is that– wait, is that why you won’t lie on top of me? Why you won't sit on my lap even when you look like you’re about to?”

You flinch away. “You notice that?”

“Sweetheart, it’s hard not to,” he says gently. “You, uh, do know I occasionally lift vehicles for my day job, right?”

You giggle at the thought of Steve randomly lifting a car at a 9-to-5. “Yeah but…”

In one swift motion he stands with you in his arms, making you shriek and cling to him. When your heart slows back down he’s standing, holding you as you have your legs wrapped around his waist and your arms behind his neck. You study him, seeking any kind of strain, any increase of breath, but he holds your gaze.

Finally, you breathe. “I swear if you make one Goddamn joke about how I really am heavier than I look…”

“How about lighter than you look?” he asks, his smirk small and his eyes bright with amusement.

You think about that. “Still not helpful,” you admit.

“Fair enough,” he says. But he moves his face closer to yours. “Are you okay?”

“Are _you_ okay?” Because you don’t know how to answer that.

“Better than okay.” He licks his lips. “I actually really like this.”

“Hm.” You’re not sure you do, but you don’t want to count it out quite yet.

Steve brings you both to the bed and sits down again. This time though he makes sure you sit in his lap, no hovering allowed. “Tell me this– if I was still sickly, scrawny Steve, would you still love me?”

“Yes,” you say without hesitation. You’ve had your own ‘am _I_ shallow’ freak-out long before now but landed pretty firmly on the decision that, if Steve has always had the good heart he does now, you’d still have loved him.

“Then why do you think I can’t love you as you are?”

“I don–…” You sigh. “I don’t know. I guess it’s not fair, it’s just…in my head, you know?”

He lets out a slight “hm.” Then he smiles again. “A lifetime of body issues doesn’t just go away.”

He’s quoting you, the brat. “Sounds like a smart person told you that.”

“Oh, the smartest.” He starts kissing you again. Not your lips though; seemingly everywhere but. He starts telling you about yourself– the things he loves. Your sense of humor, bits of personality you don’t show anyone but him. The little jokes you share that can make him laugh just thinking of. Your chest swells with the almost uncomfortable amount of praise

“And I love the way she touches me,” he says, settling to look in your eyes. “I love how she knows just where to touch to drive me crazy. I love how she pulls my face when she wants a kiss. I love how she pulls my arm when she gets excited and just knows I’ll come along.” He strokes your face. “And I love the way she lets me touch her. I love that she lets me touch the places no one else does, how she lets me close when she’s so vulnerable, how she trusts me with almost anything.”

He doesn’t put any extra emphasis on it, and if you know Steve then you know he didn’t even mean to, but that ‘almost’ is like a brick in your head. It’s true. Of all the things you’ve trusted him with– your home, your safety, your body– you haven’t trusted him with _all_ of you. The first time you had sex was sort of an accident, a moment of passion, and you made sure you were wearing something before he woke up the next morning. He was none the wiser then, still punch-drunk on endorphins and love confessions, and so you kept it up.  You’ve trusted him to _have_ you, but you haven’t yet trusted him to look at you and not run away.

You stare at him for several, long, quiet seconds.

You stand up and move back. He starts to say your name but stops when you pull off your shirt. It’s now or never, you think, and though that’s not _quite_ true, you’re going with it. It’s the unsexiest strip tease ever, especially when you’re down to your undergarments, but even though your hands shake on your bra clasp, you _need_ to see this through. So you do, until you’re standing in front of him, utterly exposed, and letting him take in the sight you have so far denied him.

He looks you up and down, poker face in full effect. You hold your arms out, do a full turn, and shrug. “It’s…me.”

He’s still staring when he smiles slowly and crooks a finger for you to ‘come hither’. You do, taking back the position you just left. He suddenly inhales deeply and you feel a _definite_ rise in his pants that makes you gasp in surprise. He chuckles and nuzzles your neck. “Yeah. Still _plenty_ for me to like, sweetheart. Especially knowing you’re my girl and I’m the only one that gets to see you like this?” He starts kissing your neck, trading between teeth, tongue, and lips. “So what if you’re not perfect? You don’t have to look like Carole Lombard to be worth something.”

You let out a breathless laugh and when he pulls back to look at you, you look right back at him. “Eh,” you say with a little shrug. “You’re no Clark Gable.”

He grins. “Nope,” he says and turns so that you’re lying back on the bed. “I’m Steve. And you’re (y/n). And I love you as you are– even the parts I don’t always like.”

“Oh _really_?” you ask as he moves down and starts kissing up your stomach.

“Yeah. Your stubbornness…”

“ _Your_ stubbornness,” you grumble.

“…the way you close up sometimes when I wanna talk it out…

“How self-righteous you can be.”

“…how defensive you can get…”

You snort as you try to clamp down a laugh at that, but he rests his head on your chest and smiles up at you. It takes your breath away– not because his head is especially heavy, but because it feels so comfortable, even despite it being an unflattering angle. You run your fingers through his hair. “Mm…I see your point. There’s always good and bad.”

“Exactly.” He kisses your lips. “I don’t have to love everything to love _you_.”

He sits up and takes his shirt off. It is quite a nice sight to behold– mostly because you’re looking at his chest and thinking about dragging your fingers down it roughly in the way that always makes him shudder. You’re thinking about how you can’t wait to nibble on his ear and pull his hair, because he always lets out the sweetest moans then.

He gets naked and looms over you, beautiful and imperfect in ways only he can tell you about. Only the ways you can notice. And now that he’s staring at you, you quash as much of your insecurities as you can and ask, “What are you seeing?”

“My dream girl.” He gets on the bed and hovers over you with that impossible arm strength. “Every part of her.” He lowers himself and kisses you, and you feel him, all of him, skin to glorious skin. Ragged bits and bumps and smoothness and untrimmed hair and all. “What are you seeing?”

“Mm, my dream guy.” You look into his eyes and smile. “The whole of him.”

**Author's Note:**

> (Apologies; this is a way-too-long author’s note that I'm keeping.) This is a week where the things I want to turn out don’t come out as I expect? Still, I started posting fic again with the idea that imperfect is better than nothing and I get upset when other authors call their stuff ‘trash’ when I end up really loving it. So! Not trash, but not what I expected. Basically, I wanted a ‘you’re not perfect or gorgeous and that’s still okay’ fic. I wanted to write a fic where Reader doesn’t get called ‘beautiful’. I think I missed the mark because along the way I also got an idea for a StuckyxReader fic (that I still want to do eventually) where everybody gets to have body issues because I imagine Steve and Bucky both have different kinds of body dysmorphia (because duh, that is entirely reasonable) and I got a little sidetracked. Anyways. Sorry for rambling; I hope you enjoyed the fic (and if not, that's cool too).


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